"Rosalie," he whispered, and as she flung herself upon him he caught a glimpse of a white face and stormy eyes, quickly hidden from his searching gaze.
Very gently he caressed her, asking no question, patting and fondling her as he would have done to a little hurt or frightened child. And then when the sobs came more easily, she stood up away from him suddenly and looked straight into his face, and her eyes were hard.
"I do not intend to be a Christian any more—not ever any more. It is all over. I hate them. I think they are horrible. Christianity is nothing—it is a cheat—and ministers are the worst of all."
"Rosalie, my little girl, have I—done something?" he cried in a startled voice, for this was new even to him, who had coped with the moods of daughters for many years.
"Oh, father, not you—how can you think that? Listen. It is that wicked, abominable old married Boltman. What do you suppose he did? I came in from school, and Doris was at the store. He said I was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and I said, 'Thanks,' very curtly, for I thought it was downright impudence, that's what I thought. And before I could even dream of such a thing, he put his arms around me and kissed me twice—kissed me—right on the lips. He did."
She had spoken in a low voice, but every word fell so clearly, so distinctly, that it was almost as if she had shouted aloud.
"Rosalie!" said her father in a hoarse whisper, and Rosalie could see that his hands shook.
"He did. He kissed me—twice. Is that all the ministry stands for? And he is married, and has children of his own—and he is in our home, and I—why, I am only a kid."
"And can one—man—kill your faith in the sanctity of the ministry—one man, Rosalie?"
"There may be some other decent ones besides you—but how can I tell which ones they are? How can anybody tell?" she wailed. "They all come praying, and saying sweet and gentle things—how can you tell which ones are true and which ones—are like Boltman?"